


New Scars and Old

by pirategirljack



Category: 12 Monkeys (TV)
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, let me patch up those wounds for you, post-apocalyptic leader-bonding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-16
Updated: 2016-10-16
Packaged: 2018-08-22 16:45:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8292857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pirategirljack/pseuds/pirategirljack
Summary: How do I have so many fics that I never posted?Inspired by a convo I had with Ohgress about how Deacon doesn't have a hat as they head out on the road.





	

“That’s a nasty scratch you’ve got there, bucko,” Jennifer said from the entrance of the tent Deacon had been given by the Daughters. A drafty tent, small and musty and with some holes through the cloth that looked a little too much like bullet holes. But it kept the rain off. “I was going to knock, but there’s no door.”

Deacon lowered the shard of broken mirror he’d been using to check on the wound in question. “It’s not bad.”

“Looks bad.”

“Could use a few more antibiotics, but…”

“It’s my fault. No more smooth skin and pretty eyes for you, all because of me. My Daughters don’t know me. It was a complicated moment.”

“It’s not your fault,” he said. “It was mine. I’m the one that shot you--her--because I couldn’t let Ramse get away with his bullshit. I’m--sorry.”

She moved a little closer. “Sounds like you don’t say that much. Sorry.”

“I don’t. I’m usually not, even when I should be. Strange, huh?”

She moved a little closer again. “Let me see that.”

There wasn’t much to do; mostly it had closed up already, and he’d been making sure he kept it as clean as possible in the shitty conditions they had. But he sort of had a hunch that it was more because she needed something to do, something simple and useful, something that involved company that didn’t hate her.

He knew the feeling.

It became a pattern. All day, they’d travel. Looking for clues, avoiding storms, checking directions. Fighting. A lot. At night, she’d come to check on his wound, and they’d mostly not talk, but they’d also not expect anything from each other.

And one day, he got sick.

Deacon was hearty. You had to be to lead hundreds of desperate men for years, to survive the world they lived in. But it had been cold and miserable and he didn’t have a hat, and he’d gotten too chilled for too long. At least, that’s what Jennifer said when she came to check on him--days after the scar was a scar and no longer a wound--and she’d found him sniffling and coughing.

“You need rest. We’ll camp here a few days.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. We keep moving.”

“You’re sick! It’s not like we can just take you to the doctor and get some nice pills, what with the only doctor we had being stuck in 1957 and the whole world having gone to shit decades ago!” She was trying to get him to lay down on his cot, and the tone in her voice got more and more hysterical as the sentence went on.

He caught her hands and held them still, moved until she had to look him in the eye. “I’m fine. We can’t wait on me.”

“I’m tired of the road.”

“We all are. Believe me. But we have things to do.”

It was like her legs folded up under her, and she sort of shrank onto her knees beside him. He didn’t let go of her hands, even though he really thought he should have long since. “I’m scared.”

“You’re brave.”

“Not this brave.”

“You are. They need you to be. You’re their leader now, and a leader has to be.”

She studied his face with fear and uncertainty and tears in her eyes, but she didn’t let them fall. She nodded, once, almost violently.

“Rest up tonight, soldier. We move at first dawn.”


End file.
